John Creasey - The Toff And The Curate

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Very Poor Stuff,” Says Jolly

Jolly sipped at a glass of Joe Craik’s whisky gingerly, ran it about his mouth and swallowed. Despite his caution, he choked. When he had recovered, he looked at Rollison with watery eyes.

“Very harsh liquor indeed, sir.”

“So I think,” said Rollison. “Craik bought it from O’Hara and, before O’Hara, from another Irishman from the colony at the docks. Bootleg liquor, Jolly!”

“You seem almost elated, sir.” Jolly was mildly disapproving. “I am,” said Rollison. “We’ve won half the battle and your journey yesterday was a stroke of genius!”

Jolly looked puzzled.

“Can’t you see why?” asked Rollison.

“I’m afraid I can’t, sir.”

“You’ve been drinking too much fire-water! You followed the pseudo-Keller’s cultured companion about yesterday, didn’t you? And as far as you know, he didn’t realise that he was being followed.”

“I should be very reluctant to think that he had observed me,” said Jolly, with dignity.

“I don’t think he did, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone round booking orders,” said Rollison.

“Booking orders for what?” echoed Jolly. “I must be very obtuse, or—oh, I see, sir!” His eyes grew brighter and took on an eager look. “Would you care to elaborate the point, sir?”

Rollison chuckled.

“Making sure you don’t steal my thunder this time? Yes, I’ll elaborate. The man with the cultured voice went to the various pubs and booked orders for the hooch. His voice would go a long way and he would be a plausible salesman. He made nine calls altogether and if he sold a couple of dozen bottles each time, he didn’t do so badly. That would explain why he made it a pub-crawl under difficulties. We should have suspected something like it last night.”

“We were both very tired,” murmured Jolly.

“Yes. Well, where do we go from here?” When Jolly did not answer, Rollison went on in a thoughtful voice: “We are justified in making some guesses. Kemp told me he is re-opening some of the mission halls which have been closed up for some time. After all, the mob would have to keep the stuff somewhere, wouldn’t it?”

“Naturally, sir.”

“Why not in or beneath one of the mission halls which haven’t been used for some time. A search is indicated! I wish I could get a few days off.”

“Perhaps it is time for you to fall sick, sir,” murmured Jolly. “We’ll see. Meanwhile, I don’t lliink we should move too fast. You’ve got one of the men who matters, the salesman of the outfit. You’d better pick up his trail again— you didn’t find out his name, did you?”

“No, sir,” said Jolly, apologetically.

“You might find out from Bill Ebbutt,” said Rollison. “You told me that your man finished his rounds in the West End, although he started from the East End. There would be a useful market for fire-water in the mushroom clubs, even more so than in suburban pubs.”

“A much readier one, sir, yes.”

“Find him and keep after him but be careful,” urged Rollison. “If they realise we’re after them in earnest, they might get really nasty. If they murdered O’Hara, who obviously talked too freely for their safety, they’ll do anything.”

“Do you think that’s why he was murdered?”

“Probably. He couldn’t resist baiting Craik which was foolish. Craik made out that he started the fight because he was anxious to defend the fair name of Ronald Kemp but actually he was keyed up to a pitch of desperation because he was afraid that O’Hara would taunt him and let Whiting know what was behind it. It looks as if we’re getting along very nicely! Bill Ebbutt was right in his estimate of Joe Craik.”

“And that was, sir?”

“Bill doesn’t like hypocrites,” said Rollison.

“Craik certainly doesn’t impress as a very sincere individual,” murmured Jolly. “Perhaps you have already seen the other possibility, sir?”

“What possibility?”

Jolly looked diffident and coughed slightly before saying:

“I have not had the advantage of seeing Craik in person but he did discover that this whisky was available, didn’t he? He usually bought his supplies in the West End but switched to the East End. The question I ask myself is, how did he know about it? A chance meeting with O’Hara, or any one of the salesmen, would hardly have brought to light the fact that they were selling illicit liquor. Craik’s reputation being what it was, he was not a likely informer. Don’t you agree, sir?” added Jolly, anxiously; for the Toff was looking at him fixedly.

“I do indeed,” murmured Rollison. “I’d missed that one. Craik might know where the stuff is being stored. He might even be conniving at it.”

“It occurred to me as being just possible, sir,” said Jolly, modestly.

“It strikes me as being probable,” declared Rollison. “Nice fellow, Joe Craik—if we’re right.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting on for nine. I’ll go over and find these halls and any other places which belong to the church and might be used for warehousing. You can iiy to find out the name of our cultured gentleman. Oh—and see that Craik gets a not tie of real Scotch.”

“Very good, sir.”

“There’s one other thing,” went on Rollison, mhbing his cheek thoughtfully. “The order of I lie day is—be careful.”

“I will, sir.”

“When you look blank like that, you’re usually wondering what I’m talking about,” said Rollison. “I’m not drivelling. Care is essential. Even if we’re right, we haven’t yet discovered where the stuff comes from. The Irish angle might be a blind—these gentry are specialists in diversions, aren’t they? But Jolly, if we’re right—how big is it?”

After a pause, Jolly said warmly:

“I didn’t see as far as you, sir. We might close up the traffic in Whitechapel, or even further around, but still leave a very wide field for its disposal.”

“Yes,” said Rollison, “and we might as well make a clean sweep of it.” He lit a cigarette. “As it might be a big-money game, take even fewer chances than you would have done five minutes ago.”

“Is there any particular thing you want me to find out about my quarry?”

“Name, address—oh, yes,” said Rollison, “and what connections he has in the West End. Big money isn’t often found in the East End.”

He paused and Jolly waited, hopefully.

There have been whisky rackets before, haven’t there?” murmured Rollison. Two or three of them—dummy companies selling good stuff at high prices. Could we be on the fringe of something similar but with hooch as its stock-in-trade?”

“It is at least a possibility, sir,” said Jolly, i have just remembered something which the man who called himself Keller said when he called last night.”

“What particular thing?” asked Rollison. “He recommended you to play around in your own back yard and made it clear that he meant the West End.” Rollison began to smile. “Jolly, we’ll have to go into formal partnership! I missed that.”

“I am quite satisfied with the present arrangement, sir, thank you,” said Jolly, primly. “I cannot see that it is of any great importance, although it might—”

“Oh, come!” exclaimed Rollison. “It might be the most important thing yet.”

“I don’t quite see—” began Jolly. “But you must see,” declared Rollison, “Keller—we’ll call him Keller—was anxious that we shouldn’t spend too much time on his beat. He doesn’t know just what we have discovered. He might even have been referring, obliquely, to the hooch. He might have been saying, in effect: "Why spoil our little market when there’s a big one on your own doorstep?" Remember,” added Rollison, “there is the real Keller, of the established reputation. Two factions, as we know. What a triumph for our Keller if he succeeded in making us concentrate on the other man.”

“Very subtle indeed, sir,” said Jolly. “I really don’t know how you do it! What time do you expect to be back?”

“I hope, by midnight,” said Rollison.

He let Jolly go ahead, reassuring himself that neither he nor his man was being followed. He came to the conclusion that ‘Keller’ had been sincere when he had offered a forty-eight hours armistice and he went by tube to Whitechapel. When he reached the Jupe Street hall, he found it closed. He went to St Guy’s, which was half a mile away, but found it empty as well—it was used as a school during the day. He was about to go back to Jupe Street when a side door of the church opened and Craik appeared.

“Why, hallo, sir!” he said, with enforced joviality. “I didn’t expect to see you again this evening!”

“One never knows one’s luck, does one?” said the Toff, ironically. “Have you seen Mr Kemp?”

“He was here a short while ago but went out. I understand that you might find him near Last Wharf. We have a small hut near there, sir.”

Did the man look furtive? Rollison asked himself and decided that Craik’s rabbity eyes held no particular expression unless it were of guilt. His drooping lips were set in a smile.

Til look there,” promised Rollison and went off.

Craik stood watching him until he was out of sight and thus increased Rollison’s sense of misgiving. He reached East Wharf which was large and bustled with activity. A ship was being unloaded and sweating dockers were at the cranes and the pulleys, at hand-barrows and on electric trucks. The roar of engines and the loud voices of the men echoed across the water.

Rollison stood watching for a few minutes.

Many of the voices were clearly Irish; the rich brogue would have fascinated him in any case and just now was exceptionally interesting. He watched some wooden packing cases being swung ashore with two men beneath to steady and direct them to a great pile. Most of the men were stripped to the waist, or wore only singlets and trousers, and many were barefooted. One little party was singing a folk-song and the harmony was curiously affecting.

“Could there be a crate or two of hooch there, I wonder?” mused Rollison, as he turned away.

He did not know where to find the St Guy’s hut—he expected that it was one which had been erected to serve the dockers, perhaps as a canteen or a clothes depot, and was now out of use because the WVS had taken over that work. Looking about him at the sweating, singing men, he reflected that Isobel Crayne would have been horrified, only a few years before, at the very thought of spending much of her time amid such people and surroundings.

Then he saw the mobile canteen and smiled when he saw Kemp standing outside it— talking with Isobel.

“He’s no slouch,” murmured Rollison and sauntered towards them. Isobel saw him first.

“Hallo, Rolly! We were just talking about you!”

“There is a law of slander,” said Rollison. “And I’m jealous of my reputation.”

“We weren’t doing it any harm,” said Kemp.

“If you were, I would close up your other eye,” said Rollison. “Shocking, these fighting parsons, aren’t they?” he asked Isobel. “You never know whether you’re going to get a homily or a punch on the nose. Don’t let him take you away, he’ll talk for hours.”

Kemp grinned.

“This is Miss Crayne’s half-hour off!”

“Have you discovered that already?” murmured Rollison. “You’re going to quicken the pace in these parts. When is the half-hour up? Because I have much to discuss with you and—”

“Hoy, there?

A stentorian voice broke across his words and made all of them look up sharply. A dozen men bellowed in warning. All were staring towards the trio while a great bale of wooden cases, enclosed in a rope-net, came swinging towards them as if out of control.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Apologetic Crane Driver

Rollison swept his right arm round, knocking Isobel into Kemp who lost his balance and fell heavily with Isobel on top of him. Rollison went flat on his stomach. He saw the load sweeping nearer and dropping fast. He drew in his breath and kept still.

The bale crashed.

He felt something strike the back of his leg and heard the crates breaking open; but little debris flew about, for the net kept all but the smaller pieces in. The crash had made the cement ground quiver, made blast enough to take Rollison’s breath away but he straightened up, wincing when he moved his right leg. He saw Isobel beginning to get up, bewilderedly; her dark hair had fallen over her eyes. Kemp had one arm about her and, although he was still on his back, he was looking about.

Rollison twisted round so that he could see his leg. The trouser-leg was torn slightly and there was a small streak of blood but he did not think it was serious; a piece of broken wood lay near him.

He stood up and helped Isobel as a dozen men hurried towards them.

Not far away, a man with a pronounced Irish brogue said loudly:

“Always aslape, I’ve never known a country where the people slape so much!” He spoke insultingly to a big sweaty docker who glowered at him.

“Keep your trap shut, Kelly.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Rollison saw the Irishman stop suddenly then swing round and aim a blow at the docker’s head. On the instant, men began to fight. Two were bowled over by the big Irishman who was landing right and left, others joined him and stood together, breathing defiance.

A little, dark-haired man, better dressed than most of the others and who had been approaching Rollison, roared:

“Stop that fighting!”

No one took the slightest notice.

“Strike me, I’ll see the lot of you in jail if—” roared the little man and plunged into the middle of the fray. He did not use his fists but pushed and shoved and shouted and out of the melee there came some sort of order. Before long, the combatants had separated and were standing away from each other. The Irish were grinning widely and there seemed to be no malice in the others.

The little dark-haired man gave orders and some of the dockers, from both sections, went towards an empty lorry and began to load it with wooden crates. Only a few of the men had restarted work, however, but Rollison paid little attention to that. He answered questions reassuringly for no great harm had been done. He smiled at the dark-haired man and at the English and the Irish working together in what now appeared to be perfect harmony.

A disruptive note was introduced by the lorry driver.

“Now then, don’t knock me lorry apart, Irish!”

“That’s enough, Straker!” snapped the dark-haired man.

“Me name’s Smith,” said the lorry driver, truculently.

Rollison would have paid little attention to the exchange but for his interest in the dark-haired man who had shown himself so capable of handling an ugly situation.

“Your name doesn’t matter a stripe to me,” he growled. “You work for Straker. Don’t start more trouble on this wharf. If you do, I’ll report you right away.”

“All right, all right,” growled the driver. “Can’t yer take a joke?” He lit a cigarette and went slouching off to the front of his lorry.